


Dreams of Peace

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know there will be peace soon...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> LJ rarepairing comm, Halloween challenge: Jazz/Mirage, "Betrayal of the worst kind"
> 
>  **Additional Warnings:** 2nd person, P &P and tactile interfacing, necrophilia.

Cold. Dark. Miserable. An air of despair hangs over the camp, an almost tangible miasma of failure.

That's now the reality of the once proud Autobots.

Scattered camps deep in the lower levels of Cybertron, trying to hold on to an ideal which is slipping further and further away.

This one is no different than the others you've seen, the liveliness and rambunctious spirits seemingly undiminished by war once so prevalent amongst the rank and file have finally been worn down to silence.

There's only the faint buzz of comm traffic between the sentry posts and the scouts that are out and about. The rest huddle into one place to better preserve heat. The less work a frame has to do, the less energon it needs.

And energon is in short supply now, rationing has become so tight it's almost a joke.

Still, it's not all bad news. You move around the recharging mechs on silent feet, nothing to give away your passage. Not that they expect you to be able to do this. How easily they forget, or perhaps it's mere ignorance. Whatever the reason, you are glad for your refined build, each and every component was once selected for your exact design, none of this mass produced slag. You can run with a lot less energon than they need to remain functioning. You can still run your mods.

You pause at the edge of camp, waiting.

You don't have to wait long, you've planned this to the last detail. You know a lot of ways to extinguish a mech's spark, it's a pity this has to be so quick.

Quick enough that his spark is guttering before his frame even relays the fact that's he's been attacked.

A silent kill, swift, deadly. Some would say a perfect mark.

Shock is etched on his features as he slumps to the ground, your hands easing him down to avoid any noise. You can't linger to bask in a job well done. You have to get back across the camp, settle into your spot and in the darkness drop your cloaking. Then rise back up and promptly trip over the nearest mech.

The clatter of metal on metal rouses only a few mechs nearby, most are too deep in recharge to be brought out by such a routine sound. They all grumble as you apologise, telling them that you have next watch and they subside with varying amounts of annoyed rumbling of their engines before they shift back into the quiet hum of recharge as you pick your way towards your watch post.

It takes longer than you expect until the alarm is sounded and the camp comes to full alert. Your shift seems to crawl by as you listen in on the reports and gossip. You'd love to smile at the chaos you have caused, but even here on the edge of camp you cannot drop your mask.

You are an Autobot, you have to resist the urge to reach up to touch the brand on your chest, you have to act like an Autobot.

A full double shift goes by before you are relieved and you head in, not having to feign the weariness now pulling at your processor and it is an effort to pull yourself up and maintain the aloof demeanor that is expected of you.

You have had your ration, what little there is, before he catches up with you, tugging at your arm until you follow. You can read the same exhaustion in him, in the way his frame slumps just a little, in the dulled edges of his visor. He's putting on a front for the rest of the mechs too, it doesn't fool you.

He stops beside an alcove, far enough from camp that there is little chance of being disturbed, nor is it likely any one will search for two senior members of what used to be the intelligence and operations division. They'll just assume it's another mission.

The small crack between two adjacent pillars is just big enough for you to squeeze between and the area beyond just right for mechs of your size.

He tugs on your arm as he sinks to the floor and you let him drag you down.

You mute your vocaliser, knowing he'll have done the same, you aren't that far away from the camp, just on the edge of the sentry patrols. He opens a dataport and you take him up on his offer as he straddles you. It's still a strange feeling, having another presence so close and yet not truly seeing _me_

::There's a traitor in the camp,:: he says, only the edge of his raw grief brushing against you before he barricades it behind a professional mask, a faint apologetic feeling following for the lapse.

::Not an assassin?:: I ask carefully.

His visor flashes azure blue before returning to the lighter shade, ::We thought Prime was an outside job and Ratchet could have been an accident, but now Prowl as well?:: his hands curl into gaps between your plating as he leans closer, ::It has to be an inside job, we've been keeping too good a watch for it to be anything else.

You nod slowly, wrapping an arm around him, tugging him closer, letting your engine rumble reassuringly, ::Do we have any idea who?::

He shakes his helm, ::We're still working out who wasn't accounted for when … _it_ happened.::

You nod again as he finally gives in and tucks his helm against the cabling at your neck, a faint purr escaping his vocaliser as he basks in the comfort of your hold and emotions. You're going to enjoy it when he eventually realises that what he has seen for so long has been but a false veneer over the truth.

His hands press more firmly against your chassis, you don't protest, in fact your own fingers are returning the gesture to a seam so they can slip inside for direct access to his sensor net.

Armour loosens, letting you in, allowing you more access to sensitive systems. How you laugh over this in private, that Jazz of all mechs opens himself to you.

Some part of you revels in the deception, in your cunning, the other part dutifully plays the Autobot. You once thought it would be hard to act the part. Now it comes easily to you, this game of wits and treachery.

Your chassis pushes into his touch, away from the floor and he shifts, pressing you back down as his talented fingers exploit your weaknesses, or at least, the ones you've let him find. Your own press into his hips, seeking the sensitive cluster of sensors there that are so easy to touch.

The flare of need through the link makes you press harder as data bounces between you. Rebounding and amplifying until all you can think about is the reports from your hypersensitive sensor net and the constant barrage of data.

::Frag you're good.::

You let your amusement echo. ::Yes I am aren't I?::

Something in your tone makes him pause , rearing back, faint confusion joining the lust flooding the connection. A flash of panic as he catches the edges of the databurst you just sent. You don't mind if he sees it, after all, it was only a trigger, the program it is even now activating has been present for vorns, ever since you implanted it.

The next flare is stronger, his visor flickers, attention turned inwards, to the virus shutting down his communications, vocaliser, motor control, anything he might need to get away or call for help.

::I'm very good.:: You repeat and his visor brightens, focussing on you, anger clear.

Blade sliding under armour plating ; his expression is all shock as he tries to lift a hand, disbelief strong in the link. You don't bother to hide your own exhilaration as you roll over, straddling his limp form.

You reach up to remove his visor with an almost tender touch, placing it into your subspace as optics silver bright with shock gaze at you. 

The data through the link is wavering, fragmented coding, pulsing as his spark struggles to stay online and you revel in the emotions transmitted, anger, fear, panic. And of course, your favourite is the simple incomprehension that he could have missed your treachery.

You lean down, close enough that his failing systems cannot miss you and others will not overhear if there are any nearby. “All hail Megatron.” You twist the knife, enjoying the way his frame jerks at the new pain.

You can see the exact moment his spark fails, the energy flickering out over his armour, tingling over every sensor as your frame stiffens as the datalink flickers wildly, nonsense code that means nothing and everything sending your processor into overload.

You reboot with a low groan, disconnecting your cable before standing, invisible. Your work is done, the Autobots are without direction, without leadership. Peace through tyranny.

Soon, you know, there will be peace.


End file.
